Dear America,

this morning, a preamble of the coming Memorial Day weekend, but today, with a twist.

I simply cannot imagine what it would feel like to have my three year old ripped out of my arms, never to be seen again. 

Joplin, MO is under a world of hurt and pain most of us will never know.

And as expected, like a well oiled machine, the barriers of politics and party and rhetoric fly right out the door; we come to our neighbor's aid, we bring food, blankets and teddy bears, and we open our hearts and our minds and our homes to help all those in need.  We expand, in whatever capacity we can, in order to bring on the healing, to begin putting back all the pieces, in community with one another.

In this moment, though, I feel at such a loss for words.

I feel off my usual chatty cathy self -- sitting here, nearly pinned to my thoughts by the delicate shards of glass reflecting my humanity, and struggling to come to grips with Missouri's reality, as we speak.

Awestricken by our inherent ability to keep going, how does a mother get through it?  Losing her baby, right out of her arms, in such a violent attack from mother nature, no less.  Is that not the cruelest thing you have ever heard in your life?  all I can do is weep for her.  while even that, makes me feel so small and insignificant, that it makes me cry, only harder.  but how can I help her?


After reading a heartwarming story of the little terrier that could, Mason, who found his way home -- with two broken legs and all -- only to find his family gone, we find out that small miracles still exist.  Mason may have found his way home, but a front porch was all he had.   So he sat on that front porch waiting. and waiting.  and waiting.  Or was it, hoping and hoping and hoping?  Or was it, praying and praying and praying?  Hard to tell what a dog thinks, you know.

But can you just imagine the moment, nearly three weeks later, when the family returned to canvass the rubble and scour over the remains of the life that was once a home, to find him?  just sitting there.  waiting.  he knew they would come back for him.

If you have the time today, read this:  A tour through the broken heart of Joplin. Allen Breed, of the Associated Press, paints the stark reality of the afterlife of a tornado's wake blending compassion, good storytelling, with a light brush of the human heart, all along side the dark shadows of the truth, throughout the entire piece. well done, Breed. it is a must read.

125 people have died; 900 are injured; and hundreds more, unaccounted for.

And that's it. That is all I got today, for my heart breaks for Joplin -- and everywhere else in the swath of the kind of swirling injustices like no other, the kind only a fierce and unexpected mother nature can bring.   how little we are.  how little we are.  What else is there to say?   The morning light is awfully dim. 

Make it a Good Day, G